All day long is about Roxxi’s wants and needs. Mrs. Lombard watches the sun stream through translucent curtains in her kitchen, feels a pliable breeze. She reflects the day: Roxxi believes there’s a syringe lodged in her cervix. Mrs. Lombard and all the staff had laughed. It’s crazy Roxxi’d say such a thing. But here, comforted by early evening light enveloping her home, while Roxxi shoots heroin “made from tar and apple cider vinegar” (Roxxi reports) into her fifty-something veins, Mrs. Lombard’s thoughts on her reflective pedestal stream in like the light traveling through the kitchen: Well Roxxi is a product of the system. Yes she is an intravenous drug user. But she is a product of The System that got her addicted in the first place.
Category: General Fiction
Passion at High Elm by Tom Sheehan
For the first time a daughter had broken the absolutely perfect line of seven generations of newborn Brindamour boys.
End of Time by Fernando Meisenhalter
She preps students for SATs, tells them that for some extra cash she can get them into the college of their choice.
The Girl with the Sealed Vagina by Vartika Sharma Lekhak
In Laajpur, a notorious town on the outskirts of Delhi, strange things were happening. The events had baffled everyone. Initially, some had dismissed it as sheer foolhardiness and some as an act of sorcery. But now people were beginning to panic.
Continue reading “The Girl with the Sealed Vagina by Vartika Sharma Lekhak”
R&R in the Poconos by Tom Sheehan
In the quiet darkness, well past midnight, where we had been drinking for about three hours with modulated care (if you can believe it) beside someone’s massive pool in the Poconos, the narrow beam cast by a flashlight came with an alarming start down the barrel of a sawed-off rifle bound to spread pain, sac pain, heart pain, knee cap pain. The rifle and the projected flash were steady, likely in the hands of a confident man beyond rifle-range tough, the heavy voice not asking but demanding an answer: “Who the hell are you guys? Speak up quickly, one of you, before this popper gets away from me. I’m not the best shot in the world.” The qualification he added in a mimicking tone said it better than any hard-line threat: ” but I don’t have to be.”
Content removed at the author’s request.
Stuyvesant Square
This photo was taken by participant/team Tony as part of the Commons:Wikipedia Takes Manhattan project on April 4, 2008.
A Few Billion Leaves by Thomas Lawrance
Is it worth your lives? his father had asked him – repeatedly. Your lives? A bullet for a few billion leaves?
Well, he’d never understood it.
No, that’s not fair; he understood it perfectly well. That’s precisely why he feared.
He’d never come out to the settlement. Laisa asked, with deliberate frequency, why he never visited.
Because he’s afraid, Felipe explained.
Guns by Sean Patrick Campbell
Let me tell you about a few things that have changed since I was a boy.
Back then, there wasn’t a nice big garden outside our house like there is now, only a heap of muck and a puddle of ooze that we used to surf in on the broken-off door of a cement mixer. We’d wreck around in that puddle what feels like all the time, until Ma came out roaring, I’ll brain yiz if ye cross this door mucked! And off we’d dash into the house for tea, kicking off our battered trainers at the doorstep, beating the muck out of them on the wall and leaving them to crust over in the sun.
A Coffee Shop Moment by Kevin Koyce
Feigned screams and contrived hugs all round. To look from a distance, you’d be forgiven in thinking that these two girls were sharing an overdue and heartfelt moment, borne out of a lifetime of uninvited separation. They saw each other yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. To be specific, with the efficiency and punctuality of German engineers, these two girls meet in this same café at 8am exactly, Monday straight through to Friday. I’ll need to find a new café. I’d rather not have to do so, as this cafe is a five-minute walk from where I work. However, before I embark, I may as well enjoy what could be my last morning here and bask in my current surroundings.
Mutla Ridge by Martin Rosenstock
He lowered the window an inch and the dry air now flowed past his temple. Though he had arrived in Kuwait five days ago, he was still feeling some jetlag edginess. The road stretched out flat and straight. Nature here had the color of an oatmeal cookie, most houses too. Some were a bit lighter in color, like an oatmeal cookie bleached in the sun. They formed an unbroken line right off the freeway, three-story facades with columns and small, frequently shuttered windows. None of this had been here back then. The country had come some way since Mr Sodamn Insane’s drubbing.
